we manage to run across him?”
26
Colonel Anderson laughed. “Don’t worry son, we have
plenty of guns. A group of heavily armed civilians would look
like a posse and attract the wrong sort of attention, so our arms
are hidden.”
He had a good point there. Potts lifted one side of his coat
to reveal a shoulder holster that held a light, snub-nosed
Webley revolver with a bird’s head butt.
“You however, for the sake of appearances, will carry a
hunting rifle for sport with passing game.”
At that, Floyd brought a horse he was leading forwards.
“This one’s yours. He’s a Boer pony, the best kind you can
have. He’s not the fastest or the most elegant, but as far as
stamina goes ’e can run rings around anything else.”
I already knew the truth of that for we had pursued and lost
many a Boer commando who had sprinted away after our
horses had played out. This horse was an inelegant,
unremarkable, nondescript grey and didn’t look at all like a
horse a gentleman would like to ride. It was compact, but
heavily muscled. I walked around it, noticing the standard
civilian saddle and a scabbard with a rifle butt protruding from
it.
Grabbing the butt, I drew it out – it was a Lee Metford with
flush magazine, checkered half grip stock and turned-down
bolt handle. It had an engraved dust cover, good finish, a rib
and sporting leaf sights, a horn fore end tip and the words
Churchill: London & Cape Town appeared on the butt plate. It
was quite something and I’d love to be able to take it home. It
certainly wasn’t a Rigby or a Gibbs, but it was a decent look-a-
like that wouldn’t have cost half that of a Rigby; a point, I’m
sure, that would have been a deciding factor in its purchase by
the Bureau.
“You’ll need to hide that military ammo,” added the
Colonel, staring at my bandolier. “You’ll find some soft-nosed
cartridges in your packs yonder.” He pointed to the packhorse
behind. “We don’t want anything military to give away the
game.”
Slowly I nodded; it seemed they had contrived to think of
everything.
27
That night we camped by the water tower. Obviously we
had water and it was a warm, overcast night, so camping out
would be quite comfortable. The horses were relieved of their
burdens, after which they were tethered under the tower where
water dripping from above had produced a green crop of grass.
The opened packs yielded a pair of safari tents and collapsing
camp chairs, as well as a set of fire irons and a camp pot for
making coffee.
“This is pretty salubrious,” said I, swigging coffee from a
porcelain cup with elegant patterns on it. Usually only officers
had this sort of kit.
It was part of a picnic set in a woven cane basket. In
addition to six porcelain cups and saucers there were six
porcelain dinner plates, an equal number of sandwich plates
and the required number of bone-handled knives and forks to
boot.
“All part of our cover. Business men aren’t renowned for
doing it hard.”
“So what’s the plan of attack? How do we catch a
saboteur?”
The Colonel adjusted his oversized hat and moved his pipe
around his mouth, while Potts unfolded a map that came from
an inside coat pocket. Then he took up on the details,
indicating places of interest using his own pipe as a pointer.
“We think he’s hiding here, near the Stormberg ranges. No
doubt there will be plenty of republican sympathizers in the
region to keep him supplied with intelligence and food. It
would also be a perfect place to play havoc with railways
because the branch line from Sterkstroom to Indwe runs right
along there, see, parallel to it. Then there’s the railway to the
south to prey upon and moving north we have Molteno,
Stormberg Junction and its branches: Burgersdorp, Albert
Junction and another branch over here that forks off to Aliwel,
all of which are only three or four days ride apart from each
other.”
At this point Potts left off to fish about in his pockets,
while the Colonel took things up.
“Therefore, should the Army arrive and things go belly-up
he only has to keep moving north until he’s over the border
28
into Orange Free State, during which there’ll be nothing to
prevent him from continuing to wreak havoc as he goes.” Then
he made a stab with a forefinger at the map. “From here, we’ll
be on our way to Stormburg Junction where a special train
awaits our arrival, but on the way we’ll swing by Jamestown
first so we can check the telegraph and the local police for
news.”
It was midday two days after when Jamestown appeared as
a distant smudge on the far horizon. Later it became a very
English-looking town of twenty-eight hundred souls, with
solid red brick and stonework civic buildings, complete with
all the necessary amenities such as an Opera House that
doubled as the Town Hall and a typically English Courthouse.
It also had nicely laid out streets, pretty churches and the
surrounding countryside looked good too, with greener grass
than other places and even stock resting under trees. It was a
region that had the quiet, understated air of orderliness and
infrastructure that was borne of prosperity about it.
On the way there we had camped at night and I had a
chance to learn more about my new companions. As Floyd and
I were about the same age we sort of drifted together.
“Is Anderson a real Colonel?” I asked.
“Don’t know. He’s a Bureau man though; I hear he had
been a Colonel in the Canadian Mounties before he
volunteered to come here.”
“A Mountie, huh?”
“Yeah, an’ a good one according to gossip. They say he can
speak French as well as two Indian languages and they reckon
he always gets his man. The story goes that he trailed a
fugitive for over eight hundred miles through snow ‘n ice
before he nabbed him and brought him in.”
“Whew. How does Potts fit into this?”
“He’s also a Bureau man. They say he is a chief of Police
with a distinguished law enforcing record. He’s essentially part
of our group because he was born at the Cape and knows the
law and local policing methods.”
Silence reigned, as I chewed on that. It was apparent I had
fallen in with some very distinguished company.
“How did you get roped into it?”
29
“I come from the military. I came over with the West
Australian Imperial Horse until the Bureau heard that I was
good at tracking, so now I work with ’em on an ‘as per need’
basis.” That, too, was interesting and got me thinking.
“So, what are you doing here?”
“They seem to think I’m the only geezer who has ever had
a good look a
t this crook and is still alive.”
“I can see how that could be handy, although the next time
you see ’im you may not be so lucky.”
We laughed, nervously in my case, and lapsed into silence.
That was a bit close to the heart for comfort.
“You must be a pretty good tracker if the Bureau has
insisted on retaining your services.”
“Yeah. I grew up on an outback station an’ was the only
white kid. Down the road were the Abbos who worked the
station, an’ I’d play with their kids. I was the only half-naked
white kid who hunted with spears and they taught me to track
an’ read sign. Never thought I’d need those skills when I
signed to come over here though.”
We entered the main street of Jamestown, where loafers
and layabouts watched with lackadaisical interest as we rode
slowly by. Every town had them. They usually hung around
hotels and bars, but sometimes it could be stables, pool halls or
tobacconists where they gravitated to loaf and watch. The road
was unusually wide for a two-street town, for it was mainly
only one-street towns that needed streets wide enough so
wagons could be turned.
We found what appeared to be the town centre, where we
pulled up opposite a hotel with a red tiled roof and stone
facade. Around us was a square of sorts and in the middle of
the road was a large communal cast-iron pump with an equally
large wooden trough for the watering of horses. We
dismounted in front of the trough and while Floyd pumped the
oversized handle the horses were able to drink, then we walked
them across the road to the hotel and tied our reins to the rail
provided. Above us, I noticed a sign that proclaimed the
quintessential English title of ‘Queen Vic,’ before mounting the
front veranda and going inside.
30
The interior was dark after the glare outdoors and it took
some time for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. By the time they
had, the Colonel had ordered two beers for Floyd and me, plus
a whisky each for Potts and himself. Then we sat near an open
window, where we had a good view of the road.
Outside, there wasn’t much in the way of mid-afternoon
activity. Three black drivers plodded slowly past with a load of
bricks on an ox wagon, while only a few pedestrians appeared
to defy the late afternoon sun. Indoors at the Queen Vic we
were the only customers, so after we downed what dregs we
had left we rose from our chairs to head for the telegraph
office, only a short distance along the road.
We sauntered into an oblong room with a heavy panelled
counter across one end, behind which was a wall covered with
pigeonholes, the bulk of which were vacant. The Colonel
enquired of the thin and nervous clerk if there were any
telegrams from the British South Africa Cattle Co for Walter
Anderson and on being told that there wasn’t, we sauntered
out.
Next, we called upon the headquarters of the local
constabulary. At the request of the Colonel, we were ushered
into the Chief Constable’s office where Potts produced an
official-looking document from an inside pocket of his jacket
and, unfolding it, handed it to our host. The document
contained the official seal of the Cape Colony Police and urged
‘all uniformed members of the Cape Colony Police thereof, to
give the bearers of this document their undivided attention and
co-operation… and it was signed with a flourishing hand by
‘the right honourable, Oliver D. Stephenson, ’ Minister of Cape
Police.
After introductions were made, Potts produced a copy of
the drawing of Eric von Smidt and enquired of the constable if
he had seen anyone of late that resembled the individual in the
picture. After studying it for a minute, he said he hadn’t and
another constable at the front desk was called upon and asked
the same question, with exactly the same result; whereupon we
ambled back to the hotel for another beer and booked
ourselves in.
31
Potts and the Colonel took care of the details while Floyd
and I unloaded the horses of our carpetbags and the cases
containing our firearms, after which a pair of attendants carried
them upstairs to deposit them in one of our rooms. When we
had finished, we untied each horse and walked them through
an archway that led beneath the upper floor of the hotel to a
courtyard and stables out the back.
The horses were then relieved of the last of their burdens
and re-watered, while the attendant in charge organised some
feed. Then our saddles, pack saddles, camping gear and
anything not required while we were in town was locked in an
adjacent locker and the key transferred to my safari jacket
pocket. After that, it was upstairs for a meeting in the Colonel’s
room, the largest and airiest of the four, being on the end of the
building and having a window down one side as well as across
the front.
Once our gear was satisfactorily deposited in the
appropriate rooms we headed off to a steakhouse we had
noticed earlier in the day. The place was tidy, with blue
gingham tablecloths and a bright young miss in a white linen
smock took our orders. The steak pie an’ mash was particularly
welcome to starving men and unlike the watery swill my
companions make, the coffee was thick and full of flavour.
Since it was still early, only one table other than our own was
occupied, therefore our orders filled out quickly.
“Now, let’s go for a drink.” Rising, the Colonel paid the
tab, whereupon we left and strolled a little further along the
road to a single storeyed tavern called ‘The Alehouse’.
The bar contained tables and chairs along one side, while
the counter traversed the other. The wall behind was hung with
mirrors and shelves containing numerous glasses and bottles,
while beer was dispensed from pull handles attached to shiny
brass taps.
The barman was tall, broad shouldered and wore a pin-
striped shirt buttoned to the neck and capped with a black bow
tie. There were black garters above each elbow and a large
hand rested easily on a pull-handle.
“What’ll ye be havin’ gentl’men?” He spoke in a musical
Irish voice.
32
“Three whiskies an’ a beer,” returned the Colonel, winking
as he turned to look at me. The barman removed some glasses
from the shelves and as he was doing the honours I cast my
eyes around, noting the painted off-white tongue and groove
on the top half of each wall and the wall-papered panelling on
the bottom half. A pair of commonplace chandeliers hung from
pulleys so they could be dropped down to light and additional
lamps hung from nicely scrolled fittings that were screwed at
intervals along each wall.
“You gentl’men been ‘ere long?” inquired our host.
His head was covered in thick black hair that parted in the
> middle and swept across either side, while an equally luxurious
moustache drooped down his rawboned face and didn’t look
out of place.
“Arrived this afternoon,” volunteered Potts, trying to look
casual with his shirt neck slightly open and his derby hat
cocked on his head.
“Sure did,” verified the Colonel, as he reached for the
folded picture of Smidt and held it unfolded in front of the
barman.
“Have you seen this gentleman? Someone in your game
would know just about everyone here-a-bouts, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh aye, I would ‘n all, but I don’t recognize this. What’s
‘e done, robbed a bank or somethin’?”
“Not that we know. We’re private detectives on the trail of
a conman who duped a widow out of her inheritance.”
“Hope you get the bastard. I’ll remember ‘is face if I see
‘im.”
As we sat and drank, the place began to fill. Intrigued, I
asked the Colonel why Potts had told the barman that Smidt
was a conman.
“He’s Irish,” replied Potts, interrupting. “Many have Boer
sympathies, therefore he may be more likely to report seeing
Smidt if he thought he had conned someone vulnerable.”
It was getting dark when a tall slim man wearing a striped
apron appeared, moving from lamp to lamp with a long match,
lighting each one in turn and adjusting the level of the flame to
suit before disappearing again.
33
We downed our drinks and returned to the Colonel’s room
where we relaxed. The room contained a double bed at one end
and the partly faded, bright blue curtains were drawn back and
held by tasselled gold braid in the corners. To the left were
fancy chairs that encompassed the front of the room, all
pointing inward towards a low knobby-legged table that
contained a silver tray, bottle of single malt whisky and a
number of glasses.
The Colonel poured generous globs of the amber fluid into
each glass and raised his hand in a toast.
“Here’s to an eminently successful and not undeserved
conclusion to our little undertaking,” then he downed the
contents of his glass in one gulp.
“Hear, hear,” we chorused with vigorous form and chucked
ours down too, except I could only manage half and even that
brought tears to my eyes.
We sat down after refills, or in my case a top-up, to get
down to business.
“Well boys, I think we’re done with this place. The police
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